Owe nothing but love

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.”

Readings here.

We are in the winding-down phase of Paul’s Letter to the Romans. In fact, it will show up in our Sunday readings for only one more week. It has been a long journey with Paul this summer. And maybe, like me, you’ve grown a bit weary of all of this Romans talk.

But, overall, I would say that this “sermon series” experiment has been a fruitful one. It has allowed us to follow Paul’s argument from beginning to end, giving us a fuller picture of the early church, and, hopefully, a clearer understanding of Christ’s love and our own salvation.

As I mentioned in the sermon I gave at the other campus last week: “At the start of chapter 12, Paul has just completed his rigorous theology of salvation that validates the equal claim of all people to the eternal promises of God.”

Now that his readers are clear about their own salvation, they are invited to respond by following the example of Jesus and living differently than they did before. And Paul doesn’t leave them hanging. He outlines the values and behaviors that exemplify Christ-likeness.

As a writer myself, I can’t help but nerd out over Paul’s elegant framing for this section, which goes from chapter 12 to the beginning of chapter 13.

“Let love be genuine…Owe no one anything, except to love one another.”

Biblical scholar Brendan Byrne refers to this frame of love as a “bracket.” He writes that the bracketing: “enfold[s] all obligations, from the sublime to the most mundane, within the one central response of love. No domain of Christian life stands apart from this core requirement” (Sacra Pagina: Romans, 393).

“Let love be genuine.” That first sentence of chapter 12 gets to the heart of what it means to follow Jesus. The rest of the chapter describes how “genuine love” is made evident through our behaviors: “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are, and so on.”

As chapter 13 begins, Paul reemphasizes the point, this time through the lens of law and duty: “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.”

God’s laws matter, Paul says, but they matter because love matters. Paul seems to know that we humans have a tendency to hyper-focus on the list of restrictions instead of focusing on the intention behind them. The intention of God’s law is and ever will be: “love your neighbor as yourself.” If you are operating from a place of love, you will make choices that fulfill God’s ethical requirements.

Start from love, and right action will follow.

“Let love be genuine…Owe no one anything except to love one another.”

Paul has answered the question of: “How do we follow Jesus?” with a resounding call to “love.” But the question that remains for us today is: “How do we actually love like Jesus?” Not in the romantic or family sense. Not as a one-off, or simply a nice thing to do when it is convenient. But as a habit that transforms every interaction in our lives.

If you’ve driven on any Austin highways this weekend, you may have seen the latest safety message for Labor Day Weekend: “Drive safe as a labor of love.”

When I saw this message on 290, it surprised me – because it runs contrary to most public safety announcements that warn about personal consequences, like getting pulled over.

Yes, it’s clearly an attempt to make a timely safety message for “Labor” Day. But it also promotes a social ethic: Pay attention out there, because your actions impact others. It could just as easily say, “Drive safe, to love your neighbor as yourself.”

It seems like the public safety people have been reading Romans! In its simplicity, this silly roadside message drives home the cause-and-effect that Paul keeps emphasizing: Start from love – and right action will follow.

This concept came together for me when I read a section of Martin Buber’s I and Thou with friends last week.

Martin Buber, a Jewish philosopher writing at the beginning of the twentieth century, believed that relationships operate in two modes. The most common one – the mode that makes up most of our interactions and experiences throughout life – is called the “I-it” relationship. This is when we interact with one another from a well-meaning, but superficial place.

For example, you and I meet and I make a series of judgments about you based on how you look, where you grew up, your gender, age, and profession. Likewise, you judge me in the same way, painting a picture of me based on a set of identity markers and personality traits.

When we’re done interacting, we might know a whole lot about one another, but we still don’t really know one another. We have seen each other as categories of people, but we haven’t encountered the whole person underneath.

The other mode of relationships is what Buber calls the I-Thou or “I-You” relationship. In this interaction, there is a breakthrough that goes beyond the surface. It’s like our souls meet, and who we are in God’s eyes becomes clear to each of us. Buber would call this, becoming “real.”

The I-You encounter makes us so powerfully aware of God’s love that we are filled with love for all living things. Buber says that, in these flashes of knowing between two people, we are so full of divine love that it is as if we are Jesus on the cross, willing to die for the love of the world.*

We become aware, as Byrne puts it in connection to Romans: “To all – even the most difficult and unlovable – believers owe a debt of love flowing from the love with which God love[s] them…”

In this “I-You” interaction between two people, we become able to love all people without judgment or resentment.

Depending on who you are, Martin Buber’s philosophy is either an “aha” moment or a head-scratching moment. But I bet all of us can remember a time that we connected with someone in a way that made us aware of a presence beyond ourselves and a truth beyond our comprehension.

In fact, I have had those connections with many of you – in the smallest moments. And they give me a sense that anything is possible – and that the world can be better.

“How do we actually love like Jesus?” We pay attention to God-moments in our interactions with our neighbors: with unhoused people asking for money on the street, in the profound observations of children, in the peace of nature, with friends at a football game, or at the “passing of the peace” in church.

We stay attuned to divine love under the surface of all that is – and how it binds us together and makes us whole. Because, when we experience real and genuine love, it enables us to see the whole world through God’s eyes. And we won’t be able to help but give what we “owe” from the abundance of love we have already received.

We will become each other’s labor of love. And we will keep laboring: when we disagree, when our ego gets the best of us, when we’re tired of saying we’re sorry.

We’ll keep laboring in love. Because we know that Love is who we really are in Christ. And what could be better than being real?

Amen.

While we still were sinners

For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. Indeed, rarely will anyone die for a righteous person– though perhaps for a good person someone might actually dare to die. But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us.

The Young Adults’ Bible Study, which meets here on Thursday nights, recently began studying First Corinthians. In our first week, we learned that First Corinthians, like many letters in the New Testament, was written by Paul in the first century. Paul was a former persecutor of Christians who became one of Christianity’s most significant preachers and evangelists. His letters – passed down to us through the Bible – contain a mix of personal history, community instruction, and theology.

Paul was not one of Jesus’ original disciples, but he had an experience of Jesus Christ speaking to him in a flash of light while in the middle of one of his Christian persecution campaigns. It left him literally blind, until God led him to a local church member named Ananias, who reluctantly, but faithfully, prayed that he would be healed in body and soul.

That series of encounters – first with Christ in the flash of light, then with faithful Ananias – changed the course of Paul’s life. Once Christianity’s biggest skeptic, he became its biggest advocate.

As I mentioned, many of the letters in the New Testament were written by Paul, including Romans, which we read from today. Often called epistles, these are real letters that Paul wrote to churches throughout the Greco-Roman world. This world, the world the church was born into, was chaotic. It was marked by extreme class hierarchy, religious oppression, and a head-spinning amount of dynastic drama.

Whether Paul is writing about conflict resolution or the nature of God, we know that he was crafting his message to encourage real people to rise to the challenge of their time and place. And over time, we have also understood that these messages still say something to us. After all, humans are gonna human and we are still subject to many of the same problems as those first century Christians.

Today in Romans, we find ourselves in the middle of one of Paul’s theological speeches. Paul has just made an argument that faith – not works, status, or heritage – is what makes someone eligible for inclusion in God’s promises. Scholar Andrew McGowan suggests that Paul’s use of “faith” in this context can be understood as “trust.”

So, Paul is explaining to the church in Rome what happens when we trust in God. He says that, though life is hard, we can trust that God will transform our suffering. Suffering will build endurance, endurance will build character, and character will lead to hope.

And, Paul says, this hope is not flimsy or aspirational – because it is built on what has already come to pass. Christ has already saved us and filled us with the Holy Spirit, And we are empowered to live, act, and love in his name. No matter what hardship we endure, we are reconciled with the God of the universe and we can trust that his power will be made known in our brokenness.

As Paul points out, we are, indeed, broken…

For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly.

Christ didn’t float down from heaven on a cloud, invite the most beautiful, moral people to his cause, then die for them because they were so pure and sweet and holy. He started his ministry in a farm town, actively avoided befriending the righteous Pharisees, invited hated tax collectors into his friend group, and boldly welcomed a heretical woman (at the well) into the salvation of God.

Paul rightly points out that “rarely will anyone die for a righteous person.” And yet, even for us, Christ was willing to die. Jesus lived and died, and lived again, for a whole bunch of beat-down, bothered, and broken people. And that is more than reason enough to trust him to be with us even when things feel beyond repair.

What’s more, in Christ’s death, he invites us into the same self-sacrifice. In his dying, he showed us that reconciling with God requires being reconciled with all of humanity: ungodly and godly alike, “bad” guy and “good” guy alike. He showed us that empathy, forgiveness, and love are the tools of reconciliation – and they require us to let go of the idea that some people are more deserving of it than others.

This mindset is particularly apparent when we talk about death. And death has been all over the news this week.

In the past few days:

  • I read about the girls’ elementary school that the U.S. bombed in Iran, killing at least 160 people – with at least 300 other civilians and leaders killed in other parts of the country.
  • I read about six U.S. soldiers who died – we didn’t count the other country’s dead soldiers.
  • And I looked at the faces of the four people who died in last Saturday’s mass shooting in Austin – the fourth death being the shooter.

In all of these stories, the public has made their best effort to sort the casualties into deserving and undeserving, innocent and perpetrator, ungodly and godly. We have tried to find justification, if not for the deaths themselves, then for a reason for our grief in some cases and our anger in others.

I dare not make a judgment call. And I dare not suggest to you that your own feelings are unjustified. We have reasons to weep and reasons to rage – and so often our weeping and our raging are just two sides of the same grief.

But Paul reminds us: while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. Christ’s death collapsed the dichotomy – that the only sinless human would die for victim and perpetrator alike is scandalous to our way of thinking; that Christ would dare lump us into the same salvation as the “bad guys” is insulting.

And yet, Christ died. And yet, he invites us all into eternal life. And yet, he calls us to be reconciled, if not in our mortal lives, then in our eternal ones.

While we may not be able to “fix” the sin and death that has already occurred, our reconciling activity now – our empathy, forgiveness, and love – can transform the violence in our hearts into peace that may very well change the course of the future.

To do this, we must build trust with God and one another…

It is no coincidence that Paul, the man who speaks so eloquently about trusting Jesus, first encountered Christ through an act of “blind” trust. While totally vulnerable, he sought out a stranger for healing. And Ananias, equally blindsided, responded to God’s call.

Paul, a faithful Jew, would have been justified in wishing Ananias dead for distorting sacred religious teachings. Ananias, scared for his life, would have been justified in ignoring God’s call to heal Paul. Who was the “good guy” and who was the “bad guy” depended on your point of view.

But they each trusted Christ – and it led them to each other. And it is that trust that led Paul to the church, and his letters, and these words that still instruct us to lay down our pride and reconcile: with God, with one another, with the world.

In the end, our only justification is in Christ. And in Christ, there are no good deaths. There are no true enemies. There is only fumbling humanity – weak and ungodly as we are – taking a step toward one another, and finding God there. Amen.

Reconciled, Forgiven, Freed | Christ the King Sermon

Readings here

Today is “Christ the King” Sunday. And that means it is the last Sunday of the church year. Next week, we will start our three-year scripture cycle over again, with Year A, and we will enter into the season of Advent.

The tone will shift, and we will look forward, with renewed urgency, to the coming of Christ: both the Christ-child that we celebrate at Christmas, and the risen Christ, who promises to bring about the “restoration” of the world.

On this last Sunday of the Christian year, as we prepare for the chaos, longing, and joy that Christmas brings, it is good to remember that Christ is king, which means that “perfection” is his job – not ours. Jesus holds everything together, when our best laid plans seem to be falling apart. He calls us to let go of what burdens us, so we can join with him at the banquet he prepares for us.

Over the past 40 or so years, it has become increasingly unpopular to use kingly metaphors when referring to God or Jesus. Though our scriptures are full of references to the triune God as Counselor, King, and Almighty One – and though God’s relationship with his people hinges so often on his authority – some of our newest liturgies remove these references.

In some of the liturgies of our church, words like “Lord” have been changed to “Savior” or, simply, “God.” Kingdom has been changed to “reign.” Some of the most faithful people I know refer to the Kingdom of God as the “kin-dom of God,” deemphasizing the hierarchy between God and humankind and emphasizing humanity as equal members of the family of God.

None of this is necessarily a bad thing…

For one, these edits are pretty subtle – they don’t necessarily change very much in the context of a single prayer or turn of phrase. In some cases, they bring renewed meaning to well-worn statements of faith by signaling that God’s domain is more generous and expansive than those of worldly rulers. And, in a world run by tyrants and would-be tyrants, it is reasonable to be wary of using hierarchical language associated more with violence than benevolence.

In a recent article written for The Living Church, the Reverend Barbara White speaks to this point:

In a world of developed democracies, which is nevertheless beset by dictators, oligarchs, and those who want to be, it makes sense to wonder if kingship is the most relevant metaphor for Christ’s relationship to the world and to humanity. There is also the uncomfortable fact that the term “Christ Is King” has been recently highjacked by alt-right antisemites on social media—which should be…condemned by all who bear the name of Christ…

In this day and age, it is good to be careful with our language. And it is reasonable for us to worry about what it signals to declare Christ as King when there are people out there suggesting that Christ’s kingship is some kind of political maneuver that means that people that look and think “like them” should be in charge.

But, anyone who calls Christ King while encouraging more division, more judgment, and more self-righteousness is missing the point entirely. Because, by naming Christ as our King, we should be seeking, not to uphold, but to destroy the hierarchies and boundaries that divide people. We are all made equal under the banner of Christ our King.

In today’s Gospel reading, we encounter the final moments before Jesus’ death on the cross. Smug bystanders mock and ridicule Jesus for claiming that he is the Son of God and the Messiah, the “anointed” one. They have placed a sign over his head that reads: “King of the Jews.” It is intended as a clear denial of his kingship – after all, this so-called Savior is dying.

Meanwhile, from his lofty height on the cross, Jesus looks down and asks for their forgiveness: “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.”

In that moment, one of the criminals on the cross next to Jesus receives a spark of understanding: Jesus is not only innocent, he really is the Savior spoken of in the prophecies.

So, he asks for all he thinks he can ask for, as a guilty man: “remember me.” And Jesus gives him all that he can give: eternity: “Today you will be with me in paradise.”


Jesus is a king who turns everything on its head: his throne is a cross and his law is forgiveness.

Here on the cross, there is a profound reversal of expectations. The bottom falls out of earthly power structures held up by self-interest, self-righteousness, and control. And now, the full sweep of humanity falls into the arms of Christ: reconciled, forgiven, and freed.

This moment on the cross reveals the true character of Christ’s kingdom: No one is too far gone. No one is beyond forgiveness. And the scorned and abandoned are the first to enter paradise.

When the criminal recognizes Christ as king, he can finally let go of his own will to power. He releases his protective pride and accepts the compassion Jesus shows him. He dares to reveal his deepest hope – that he will not be forgotten. And when he asks, he receives more than he could imagine.

His story can be a lesson for all of us. When we accept Christ as king, we no longer have to hold onto our own wills to power – motivated by shame, longing, regret, and fear – because we know we are held by a savior who loves us more than his own life.

In a time when association with kings and kingdoms is perhaps more fraught than it has been since the American Revolution, we must reclaim the concept of Christ as King. We do this by placing it within the broad message of the Gospel, which reveals that Christ is fundamentally different from the rulers of this world.

He does not rule through control or fear, but by endlessly expanding freedom and joy, in a single-minded path to reconciliation. He is Love, embodied, calling us by name, finding us when we’re lost, and forgiving us even when we don’t ask for it. He makes it possible for us to be a “kin-dom,” a family made up of people who aren’t related and might have hardly anything in common, besides being so deeply loved by Jesus. By reconciling us to himself, we can find peace with one another.

Christ is King, which means we can lay down their weapons, our burdens, and our pride and let Christ do what he does best: make a way to paradise, for everyone. Amen.